


A Series of Alternate Events

by panickedbee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Series of AUs, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Alice in Wonderland Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, F/F, Fantasy, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-15 12:10:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7221814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panickedbee/pseuds/panickedbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is rarely any universe in which Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are not absolutely mad for each other. As universes are rarely so lazy as to let that happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watson in Wonderland - The Measurement

**Author's Note:**

> I actually just wanted to write a Dressmaker AU and suddenly everything turned out to be much bigger. I've had this Alice idea, mixed the two of them up and... well, here we are. To more fun and fluffy AUs to come!
> 
> The idea with the measuring is from _The Dressmaker_ , the universal references are from the famous book _Alice in Wonderland_.  
>  All the characters belong to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and, of course, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

His house was leaning, he noticed. Just a little, but obvious at first sign, and for a moment he pondered before knocking on the door.

They had sent him here on his own and he had followed the talking flowers along the little path through the forest. The farther he got away from the pipe smoking caterpillar, the more clouds covered the sky above his head. He could hear the flowers whispering to his left and his right, sometimes they whistled at him as he went by. He wasn't even that posh today (so the whistling felt a little inappropriate), just wearing the clothes they gave him, which was a suit in navy blue that looked old and worn.

He worried, of course, that he would be judged based on this, but knew that his own worth shouldn't be measured by the clothes that covered his body. Not even down here.

The sign on the building said in big letters,

_'The Mad Hatter'_

and then in smaller letters on another sign, having been attached below it in addition,

_'not just hats'_

"I can very well hear you pondering at my doorstep. Are planning to buy, to sell or to slice me in half and devour my remains?"

These shouted words from inside the house sounded like an invitation (or a warning, at the very least), so he decided to push the door open at last and thrust his head through the widening gap. Not that he had expected anything less confusing or mad-looking, going by that name, but he was truly short of words right now. He watched his host who still seemed to be rummaging around behind a screen at the end of the room.

"Not that you'd be to blame. I'm certain I'd make the most delicate meat pie. With just a pinch of cinnamon."

It was so dark in here, all curtains drawn, but what he could make out from these rooms was chaos! Pieces of fabric everywhere, a whole bunch of colourful feathers poured out on one of the tables, and pearls, little pieces of accessories, buttons all over the floor, making these innocent little extras on every man's wardrobe into dreadful threats for careless feet.

Now the figure finally stepped out from behind the room divider.

"Oh, you're. You're Alice. I didn't expect you to be here so soon."

The man looked startled for a moment and then came to life again as he rushed through the room on quick feet and long legs. In his attempt to clean up he made it easy to follow and watch him work with one's eyes, how his tight and neatly striped trousers ran over narrow hips, how his waistcoat carried needle and threat stitched into them (for quick access, probably), his green handkerchief that didn't fit the brown at all but perfectly all at once and his chocolate curls bouncing beneath the worn out looking top hat that had a blue scarf wrapped around it.

He couldn't take his eyes off him.

"Eh, hello. Actually, well. Alice is just the title they gave me. John is fine."

At this the Hatter stopped and stared, his back half turned to him before he slowly turned around, considering. "They call me the Mad Hatter. Fewer call me Sherlock Holmes." He seemed to wait for something else. "I don't just make hats."

"I know, it's what- it's why I'm here. It also says so outside." John pointed behind him as if the roof of the house was visible through the walls.

Sherlock seemed delighted at this. "Oh, you read the sign!"

"...Yes. Why wouldn't I-"

"Most people can't read. Or are as arrogant as to refuse to do so. They just remember the letters and their possible meanings."

John thought about this for a moment, wrinkles deepening around his brows. "But isn't that what reading is?"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him.

"So." John tried again after a while. "They say you also call yourself a ..."

"A consulting dressmaker. People come to me, I read them and tell them what they like. As I said, most people can't read. Then I make for them what they most desire."

Wow, that sounded about ridiculous to John. He was  _fascinated_.

"Is that so?" He started to walk around the room with hands behind his back, but then found himself being even more fascinated, wanting to look at things closer and to touch them. "So what do I desire then?"

"Alice would like a suit for the wedding of the Queen of Hearts. John, on the other hand ... it could take me a little longer to figure that one out."

An odd mix of pride and arousal stopped John in his tracks. He raised his head and listened carefully to that incredible voice, which sounded like a wild animal trapped in a music box, lowering even more. Sherlock Holmes couldn't read him, but he promised to _figure him out_. This was clearly where the pride was coming from. As for the arousal... well.

The feelings distracted John so much that he completely failed to notice his own mistake. He should've become sceptical. Nobody was supposed to know of Alice's role at the wedding, let alone the importance of John's presence there. How had he known?

Since Sherlock had already known he needed a suit, apparently, he walked over to the small table at the window (Was it a table or was it an inside out dungeon?), wiped the surface off its hats and test... tubes? with his bare hands. It all fell down with noises of a second-hand pain in front of John's feet. Sherlock sat down with sheets of paper and a pencil.

"Busy yourself, John. It will take a while 'til the water boils."

John stepped through the room on tippy-toes, cautious not to break his bones in here. "Oh, you make tea?"

"What?" Sherlock sounded offended. "No! The tea party isn't before six o'clock."

"Oh. Okay." John needed a moment to think and frown about this. " I wasn't aware time was a concept down here." He had no idea what it would look like when it passed.

"I wouldn't let Time hear you talking about him this way. He might become cross with us and then it could always be tea-time. Imagine this! Dreadful."

John decided not to comment on this.

Minutes went by in silence. John had found a big mirror behind a long curtain with a golden frame and dirt and dust around the glass, and even more hats flying around. He decided to try some on, but they just looked funny on him. Sherlock didn't look funny with his hat. He looked exciting, looked handsome, looked like a perfect fit. John wanted him to make a suit that was like that. _Exciting_.

He looked up from his drawing, suddenly, and seemed a bit perplexed to see John in a golden top hat, twice the size of his head. He smiled because he thought John was endearing, and when he looked down again the smile wouldn't vanish from his lips. "Would you fancy some wine?"

He took off the top hat. "No, thank you."

John wasn't as thirsty as he was hungry.

"Good."

"Good?"

"There isn't any," Sherlock explained.

John's face grimaced in confusion. "Then why did you ask me if I wanted some?"

A moment. "I'm interested."

Oh, he really was a madman, wasn't he? His heart gave a flutter and grew in his chest. He's _interested_. John watched him work for a bit, didn't feel odd at all as long as Sherlock didn't look up. (He wasn't, his brow furrowed in concentration, building a little bridge above his nose, his sharp cheekbones making his face even more angularly.

"She doesn't like you," Sherlock just stated after a while without looking up, but with such suddenness that John felt caught.

"She?"

"The Queen's bride-to-be."

"What? Who told you that, I don't even know her!"

Sherlock looked up under long lashes and gave him the most intense once-over he had ever received in his whole life from the prettiest pair of piercing eyes he had ever seen. He just had to admit that he looked lovely.

"Your left breast pocket told me that."

"Hmh?"

"There's a rose in there, a valued accessory to be wearing around to that kind of a suit, hope you don't mind me saying, but everything about you says you don't particularly care about the looks. Now why would you have something like that rose if you wouldn't be keen to have it? It's a gift then."

He got up from his chair, and John threw a short glance at the sketch on the table to see that he couldn't only design or read people but he could also draw, and while he thought that wasn't really fair, he also found it appropriate for someone who took his breath away so easily. Was that what Sherlock meant when he mentioned the reading? Was he being read right now? Why did that feel so fantastic?

Sherlock stopped mere inches in front of him, smoothed one of his long-fingered hands down his collar, next to his breast pocket. "Losing a few petals. It's been worn before. I believe John wouldn't treat gifts like this – you might not care too much, but you understand how to respect garment of value. It had a previous owner. But that was rather obvious, wasn't it?"

"The engraving," John breathed out, unable to say much more.

 _"'H + C'_. Could be anyone, couldn't it? Since this is a fading beauty, someone must have cared enough to engrave it not too long ago. You don't have an extended family, at least not one you're close to, otherwise you wouldn't be standing here so calmly with all the time in the world in your pockets, isn't that right, Alice? So H and C. Lovers, clearly, but why would they give this item to you? Let's see. The rose is white, and I know just the person who disapproves of exactly that colour, in fact, had a whole garden of white roses painted red for her. Yes, it's the Queen of Hearts, who also happened to have hosted a croquet match recently. One to which the Duchess was invited, Clara, the C on the rose? The Queen is known for throwing around death sentences, so the Duchess knew she would be excecuted regardless of what she did. She knew who you were, you talked to her, she decided you should spread word of her love with this when she couldn't anymore. So for some reason the Queen saw you and didn't want you executed. And now you're even invited to her wedding? What lover wouldn't be jealous here, really? Queen Mary's fiancé is dangerous. Isn't that so?"

He barely managed to find his words to give at least some kind of answer. Sherlock was still so close. "Is what so?"

"That most people can't read. And I can."  
  
John knew he was gaping. He must've been. He could feel the slightest blow of air touching the roof of his mouth and making his tongue feel rough from dried saliva. The Hatter's name was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't just make hats. He was most certainly a complete madman. And he was _amazing_.

"I can't believe you."  
  
"Am I unbelievable?"

"Unbelievably right."  
  
"Can you believe that a raven is like a writing desk?"  
  
"No."  
  
Sherlock just smirked as if he had said something clever. Which was confusing. What exactly was clever about being amazed? John's face reflected the Sherlock's smile nonetheless.  
  
"Good. I take the case."  
  
"Case? What case?"  
  
A writing desk and now a case?  
  
"Yours. The suit case."  
  
Sherlock turned around abruptly and was back to rummaging around and throwing things through the air. John wasn't sure if he should be watching the mad genius at work or if he should look away awkwardly. He chose to watch him, flinching a bit at - _clink_ \- all the clashing of flying objects.  
  
"Ah!"  
  
He seemed to have found what he was searching for. It was... a measuring tape?  
  
"Take off your clothes."  
  
John blinked a few times and smiled a smile of confusion, thinking he must have misheard. With his head tilted his lips moved to form a question. But when he realised that Sherlock would just keep standing there with crossed arms, waiting patiently, he thought that maybe he hadn't had the wrong ears and Sherlock not the wrong tongue, and that getting undressed was in fact exactly what had been asked of him.  
  
Sherlock raised one thick brow and his mouth gave the tiniest twitch of a smirk. _Was it a test?_  
  
And suddenly John thought _Well, why the hell not? We're all mad here, I have nothing to hide_ , so he started to slip the blazer off his shoulders. It fell to the ground. He didn't take his eyes off Sherlock's face. Sherlock's smirk vanished when he unbuttoned his dress shirt. His mouth lips formed a gap as John opened the button of his blue trousers, sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth when he pulled down the zip. He let go of the trousers and they pooled around his legs until he stepped out of them. Stripped down to his pants he was standing there proudly, even though his hands were sweaty, even though his mouth was dry from nervousness.  
  
Now the Hatter was the one who blinked a few times. He slowly took off his hat and put it down on the nearest (and fulllest) chair, then continued to look at him. Up, all the way up to his eyes, then  _down down down_. John knew he was half naked and exposed to those piercing, incredibly blue eyes (blue, grey, green?) but he waited, like a brave soldier he waited patiently for something to happen. Sherlock seemed to remember he still had the measuring tape in his hand. He came closer, not averting his gaze.

He stopped mere inches in front of him, and John's heart rate increased. _Ba-bumm, ba-bumm, ba-bumm_. He raised the tape above his head, around his chest, pulling him even closer to him. The tape felt colder, but Sherlock's hands were warm, and his fingers tickled the skin of his chest just above his nipples as he tightened the tape more to take the measurement. Sherlock tried to keep his eyes closed, tried to work, but he couldn't help but note how John's breath prickled sweetly on the skin of his throat and filled the skin between them. And John knew his lips were just at the same height as Sherlock's lovely (truly lovely) neck and that he could move forward, just a little, stick his tongue out and lick on it. From one of those visible collar bones up to his clear-cut jawline.  
  
As his gaze was turned upwards to imagine this (and shiver and feel warmth spread between his legs) he only now (how could he?) did notice his eyes, when he was looking straight forward, were directed to have this soft pair of lips (that no artist could've created, really) just in front of him, just within reach. Pink and full on the button, the form of a Cupid's bow on the top.

He didn't just make hats. He also made his legs weak.  
  
But Sherlock's hands worked quickly and it hit him with surprise as their eyes locked. He found his shifting iris to be not from this world (or maybe just exactly from this world, as strange and wonderful as it was down here).  
  
He felt drawn to him and found it highly fascinating to see uncertainty in those eyes. But not more of it than there was interest. It awakened a hope around his heart that they might not only share this moment, but that the Hatter could even experience the same feeling. And suddenly Sherlock Holmes dropped to his knees in front of him.  
  
John's skin was warm and marked by goosebumps, reminding Sherlock of the fact that John was only wearing pants (he didn't need a reminder, thank you) and it was hard to resist the impulse to touch it. His body stilled for a moment as he found himself face to face with John's belly button, a trail of fine hairs leading further down. He watched it raise and sink as John breathed.  
  
He knew he wasn't unaffected. They both weren't. Sherlock could feel the heat coming from John's body, from John's... crotch.  
  
Trying to work quickly, he measured the scale of his waist, fingers brushing his hipbones in doing so. More goosebumps. When Sherlock got up again they were almost chest to chest, both breathing heavily. Even though John had just been standing there and Sherlock had just stood up, their hearts pounded like after a Caucus-race. After a while (it could've been ages) of just remaining in their positions inches apart from each other's faces, John swallowed audibly.  
  
"You are very quick." He sounded out of breath.  
  
"It's my job." The Hatter didn't do any better.  
  
"I thought reading people was your job."  
  
"Yes."  
  
John licked his lips in slow motion and Sherlock's eyes were following the movement.  
  
"You will look marvellous," the Hatter whispered. "In the suit."  
  
"I rarely wear suits." And John grinned saying that.  
  
"You should. I should make you another after this."  
  
"Yes, we should. Do this again."  
  
"Now that I already know your measurements..."  
  
"They could change. I've been growing and shrinking a lot lately."  
  
Their eyes met again and they both huffed out a little sigh of amazement as they smiles complemented each other. Just before they slowly vanished and they stopped smiling, realising something else in the other one's blue eyes. Then their lips met.

Two halves put together like jigsaw pieces. Deeper now, deeper as Sherlock opened his mouth with a moan and John's tongue slid in. They were dancing and making little noises, and the fact that they were still standing upright was _outrageous!_ Sherlock had long let the tape fall to the ground, along with all the numbers, all the calculations in his mind. All dropped to the floor. And all that was left was feelings. When they finally parted after long, long minutes, John started driving his fingers through those dark curls.  
  
"Your hair is almost too nice to be wearing hats all the time."  
  
"What a mad suggestion of Alice."  
  
John chuckled. "When can I see you again?"  
  
"Well." Sherlock pretended to be thinking deeply about this question as if it was a riddle." I will finish your suit and if it fits you can take it with you. If it doesn't..."  
  
"Let's hope it doesn't."  
  
Sherlock let out a bemused snort. "The Queen would behead me if it's not finished in time, you know."  
  
"Shame. You have a lovely neck."  
  
The Mad Hatter couldn't believe Alice was flirting with him. That Alice had kissed him. That he would ever find love in this wonderful. Yet here they were.  
  
And the Mad Hatter could almost, _almost_ , believe that Alice was leaning in just to kiss him again.

 


	2. Even Genius Secret Agents Fuck Up Sometimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock Secret Agent AU!

The door swings open. A shadow falls upon the old folding bed, which threatens to break down with every movement too much. For long seconds he is just staring wordlessly at the sleeping form that appears to just be resting there in peace. But not one second too long …

“Will you the get the fuck up?!”

John’s tone of voice and his choice of words don’t exactly make him sound like the kind and friendly person he usually is. (Maybe. Sometimes. There is yet proof to be found on that.) It doesn’t seem like he’d like to be kept waiting any longer.

Sherlock, the implied resting beauty, blinks a few times, and each of these blinks reveals another glimpse of grey eyes shifting into light blue. At first, they seem quite cold - if one is unaware of what they can expose of his heart, of course - but his gaze is a searching one and not free from emotions. But all in all, it is the calmness of this gaze that John cannot put up with right now.

“I won’t repeat myself.” His voice becomes quieter, urgent.

Eventually, Sherlock begins to obey. He sits up on the bed and stretches himself, seemingly all the time in the world on his shoulders. “Hmmh, you took your time,” he says, yawnes and ruffles his hair with both hands.

John gives a snort and turns his back to him. “You should be grateful they don’t just let you rot in here for the rest of your days.” He takes a deep breath to let out a sigh and begins to walk away, as if he was convinced that Sherlock would follow.

Which he does. His long legs catch up with him quickly, and now they are walking side by side as Sherlock tilts his head to the left and to the right. Both movements cause an unpleasant sound around his neck.

“This is exactly why you always get yourself in these situation. I mean, come on, what kind of an agent manages to get himself arrested?”

John raises his voice again, but as he notices that he does so, he tries to calm down.

“It just sort of… happened,” is all Sherlock has to say to this, apparently. “Who could’ve known that some people would mind you borrowing their motorcycle for a greater good?”

Yes, it seems that is the only thing Sherlock has to say in his defense. John stops to look at his partner. “Sherlock. You practically dragged that bike from under the man’s arse, just to completely crash it in your hot pursuit, to which you also invited the nice officers of the police nearby that, as far as I’ve been told, don’t actually like to be winked at before you drive away. Normally, I’d suggest that they just keep you here, but since I know you…” And now, for the first time today, his face grows a little softer, “Could it be that you're just a bit overworked?”

Sherlock gives a short and mocking laugh, but avoids his gaze now in his usual and fake keeping-people-at-arm’s-length manner. “It’s very sentimental of you to worry about me, but, I can assure you, just as unnecessary. Apart from a few sore muscles and scratches, and some of them were caused by the uncomfortable sleeping options here, I’m doing _just_  - _fine_.”

John narrows his eyes at ‘sentimental’. This is just typical of Sherlock. Once again pretending sentiment was a weakness and wouldn’t concern him. Even though he should know by now that _John_ knows that he’s being like this especially in moments of vulnerability. Granted, John himself isn’t exactly good at handling weakness either, but at least he can see when it would be time to give in to it. Like right now, for example.

But he has noticed that these days Sherlock is buttoning up his coat extra tightly around himself to let no one else in. It hurts, and this may be selfish of him, but it hurts. During those three years they’ve known each other and during those two they’ve been officially working together, he has stopped wearing his mask like a second skin around him. It could only be about one of their last and tragic cases that has caused him to pick it up again. A woman has died. She wasn’t supposed to, despite her crimes and the threat she posed, but she wasn’t supposed to die. She was meant to join a witness protection programme in America that would spare her life. And then one day, the message left them both in silent surprise: She got killed. Never made it.

John knows Sherlock thinks he could’ve done more for her. And as hard as it is for him to swallow done his big lump of jealousy, he feels him. Having served as a doctor and having lost enough patients and comrades, he feels him.

They have almost reached the main exit of the building as Sherlock stops dead in his tracks. John shoots him a confused glance.

“Give me but a second,” he tells him. Sherlock approaches one of the officers that arrested him only one day ago. “Well?” He frowns at the copper, clearly expecting to hear something now that he thinks should be obvious.

The police officer groans and eventually complies. “Sorry that I've arrested you by mistake.”

Apparently, that is all Sherlock wanted to hear from her, so he turns around with a little smug smile on his lips.

But the lady isn’t done talking yet. “But we can’t just let every psychopath who claims to be a secret agent on a mission turn loose like that.”

Sherlock’s expression changes once more, probably at the word 'psychopath’.

“I mean, you didn’t even have an ID with you.”

Now that draws John’s attention again. “You didn’t have your ID card with you?”

Sherlock gives a shrug. “I must’ve lost it when I fled the ship.”

John feels the urge to slap himself in the face. Or Sherlock. Yes, at second thought much rather Sherlock. He tries his best not to get too angry about it, but…

“Do you have any idea how much it costs to reconstruct that thing? Sometimes, I swear…”

Sherlock is trying to stop him from being so upset by simply talking to the police woman once more. Not the best of ideas, in retrospect. “Alright. But you would be a great help if you didn’t stand in the way next time and just left the real work to us instead.”

John walks away before Sherlock can even end his last sentence, too worried he will actually punch him this time. “I hate you sometimes,” he says as soon as they are outside and Sherlock has caught up again.

He pretends to think about this for a moment. “Hmmh, no you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

They slip into the black limousine that has been waiting for them outside the police department, black windows that block not only curious looks but bullets as well, and a man in a black suit has stood outside at parade rest to hold the door open for them. When they are finally sitting on the dark leather seats of the car, John pulls Sherlock close to him by the already half ripped collar of his shirt with force.

“Don’t you  _ever_ do this to me again, do you hear me?”

He crushes their lips together in a desperate kiss full of fears and promises. In between kisses, his presses more words into Sherlock’s mouth, squeezes them between his muffled whimpers. “Running off on your own? You’re done with that.” Tongue slides in between his lips, and Sherlock opens his mouth wider. “Understand me? Never. Again.”

Sherlock can’t quite comprehend anything of importance right now, expect for _John, John_ ,  _it’s all him_ , but he swears to remember, “Never. It’s always you, John.”

They are snogging away time and space for the next ten minutes before Sherlock’s tired body presses against John’s in exhaustion.

“Did you manage to eliminate the target at least?”

Sherlock exhales deeply. “I’ve been arrested. What do you think?”

There is a little moment of silence as, suddenly, John creases his face in increasing confusion. “What bloody ship did you even flee from?!”

“Oh, you know, I thought… Long story.”

“Idiot.”

“Always you, John. Always.”


End file.
